


take your heart out the box, i won't harm it

by 152glasslippers



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Karen takes care of Frank after he hurts his eye, Love Confessions (almost), Post-Season/Series 01, kind of sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 09:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15116873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/152glasslippers/pseuds/152glasslippers
Summary: “You still haven’t explained what happened to your eye.”He turned to glare at her, and Karen wanted to slap herself across the face for finding his stone-cold gaze and ridiculous eyepatch sexy.She sighed, didn’t try to disguise it this time. “You need to rest.”Post-season 1 of The Punisher. Frank texts Karen for help when he loses his dog Max, but when Frank shows up with a mysterious eye injury, Karen decides Max isn't the only one who needs her help.





	take your heart out the box, i won't harm it

**Author's Note:**

> For @agents-galore on tumblr, for the kastle fic/art exchange. Inspired by their beautiful art: https://agents-galore.tumblr.com/image/149161883119
> 
> You said you liked the comics with Frank wearing an eyepatch, and I had no idea that was even a thing, but HOO BOY I just ran with it and it turned into this?? Part sick!fic, part domestic fluff, zero plot, and feels turned up to eleven (because I can).
> 
> I had so much fun writing this. I hope you like it! Thank you for a GREAT prompt. <3

Frank never asked to meet this late; he took her safety seriously. She’d say too seriously, but this was Hell’s Kitchen, and it was Frank.

But that was the first sign.

He’d also texted after midnight and wanted to meet less than an hour later, which she took to mean, “as soon as possible but I don’t want to inconvenience you even though I need to because it’s urgent.”

So that was sign two and sign three.

She’d been awake working on an article, crouched on the floor in her living room, still in her work clothes. She’d pushed down the immediate, reflexive panic, typed out a quick _I’ll be there_ , shoved her feet into her shoes, her arms into her coat, and left her files where they were, spilling off the coffee table and onto the floor.

She made it to the river before him, sat on their bench and wished she was still on her way, when her thoughts had been only about getting there, instead of detailing and cataloging every reason Frank could have asked to meet, each more horrifying than the last, anxiety and nausea taking over her body.

And still, when he walked up to her out of the dark, she was wholly unprepared.

It was snowing, just gently, enough to lift the ends of her hair, but not enough to obscure the bandage running around Frank’s head, the gauze concentrated over one eye.

She didn’t even wait for him to come the rest of the way. She shot up off the bench and closed the distance between them, her hands reaching out of their own accord, one hand on his arm—the shrapnel scar underneath her fingertips, even if she couldn’t feel it through the layers of his clothes—and the other on his cheek.

She told herself it was okay because it was an assessment, not a caress.

“Christ, Frank! What the hell happened?”

He leaned into her touch for a second, his cheek sinking into her palm, his one good eye closing as he let out a deep breath.

And then it was over, and he was looking back up at her. Her hand slid to his shoulder, but she didn’t let go.

“I lost Max.”

Karen frowned a little, opened her mouth to say _that’s not what I meant_ , but she stopped at the look in Frank’s eye. Lost, like in the elevator that day.

She dropped her hands and nodded, maybe more to herself than to Frank.

“I’ll help you look.”

Frank nodded back at her and swallowed, and it was that motion, like he was pushing something down, keeping something in check, that had her lacing their fingers together, holding him close to her side, as they turned around and left the park.

\---

David was the one who found him. He could cover more ground with security cameras than they could on foot, something she knew Frank had known before he’d even texted her—it was why David had been his first call—but obviously sitting around and waiting wasn’t an option.

Or maybe, said a tiny voice in the deepest corner of her heart, he’d just wanted to be with her but felt like he needed a reason other than “I’m upset.”

Karen sighed, tried to disguise it as a deep breath. She’d never outgrown wishful thinking. It had saved her life more than once, clinging to that kind of hope.

Didn’t mean it hurt any less when reality fell so spectacularly short.

Didn’t mean she’d ever stop wishing.

So she focused on the weight of Frank’s hand, still wrapped around hers, even while his other hand kept a hold on Max’s leash. Max had instantly brightened when he’d caught sight of Frank, sitting up next to the garbage cans and the stacks of boxes he’d been cowering under, in exactly the same spot Frank told her he’d first laid eyes on him. They’d already been headed that way when David called.

“Seems like the place to start,” Frank had said.

He’d let go of her hand when he’d crouched down in front of Max—slipped his leash on while he rubbed Max’s head and Max was careful to lick only the good side of Frank’s face—and she’d stood back, wanting to give them space for their reunion.

But then Frank had gotten up, and Max had come sniffing at her knees, and she’d leaned down to say hello again and scratch behind Max’s ears, and when she’d straightened, she’d caught Frank looking at her with an expression she couldn’t read. And without another word, he’d slipped his hand back into hers, and they’d headed for home.

Which meant Frank’s place, since Max was desperately in need of food, but which also meant Karen ended up standing in the middle of Frank’s kitchen after three in the morning, with an excited Max and an exhausted Frank, neither of whom were in a position to walk her home.

Which they were now arguing about. Of course.

“It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, Karen. It’s not safe.”

“I met you at the river after midnight, Frank. I don’t think three hours makes that much of a difference.”

“You think I was happy about that? Asking you to meet so late? Putting you at risk like that?” He started moving toward the door. “I’m walking you home.”

Karen stayed where she was, arms crossed. Max was watching them from behind his food bowl.

“You can’t leave Max alone, and he shouldn’t be going back out there tonight.” It’d only gotten colder, the snow coming down harder. “I’ll be fine.”

Frank lifted his arm like he was going to wipe his hand down his face, then stopped, seemingly remembering his bandage.

“You still haven’t explained what happened to your eye.”

He turned to glare at her, and Karen wanted to slap herself across the face for finding his stone-cold gaze and ridiculous eyepatch sexy.

She sighed, didn’t try to disguise it this time. “You need to rest.”

“Won’t get any, not knowing you’re safe.”

“I’ll text you when I get home.”

Frank shook his head. “Not good enough,” he said forcefully.

“Fine! Then I’ll stay here!”

They both went still. Max stopped eating and lifted his head, ears perked up like he understood what she said. She dropped her eyes to the floor. Her skin felt hot, from frustration or embarrassment, she couldn’t say. Staying over wasn’t something they did.

Until now, apparently.

When she glanced up, Frank was still staring at her.

“Probably need help changing that bandage anyway, right?”

Frank huffed a laugh and tilted his head in that way of his, like he was amused by her and her very existence in his life.

“Yeah.”

She couldn’t help her smile. It was infectious.

\---

“How often did Curtis tell you to change this thing?”

“Every six hours.”

“When did he patch you up?”

“Middle of the night last night.”

“And how many times have you changed it since?”

Frank shifted on his bar stool but didn’t answer. Karen kept unwinding the bandage from around his forehead. It looked more than a little worse for wear.

“That’s what I thought.”

She was standing in front of Frank, in between his open knees, the first aid supplies Curtis had left for him spread out next to her on the kitchen island. Frank’s hands rested on his thighs, palms flat, fingers spread. She could see his trigger finger tapping every so often from the corner of her eye. His breath was warm on her chest, on her neck.

She was asking about his bandages, but she was thinking about how close they were.

That is, until she took off the last piece of gauze and finally got a look at what was underneath.

Two inches of stitches, running above his eye, just below his brow bone, so swollen it was forcing his eye shut. The skin around the entire eye was bruised, deep reds and purples, no doubt the result of whatever cut him ramming into his face.

“Karen?” Frank’s voice was soft, concerned, probably because she was frozen in place, feeling the same ache rise in her chest that she’d felt as she’d looked at him in the elevator, broken and bleeding.

Always, always, it came back to that damn elevator.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“Knife got too close.”

She looked him in the eye, but that was all she was going to get.

She decided it was enough.

She badly wanted to kiss him where it hurt, but she was worried about the hygienics of that choice, not to mention the emotional ramifications, so she turned back to the directions Curtis had written out for Frank, which were really now for her, and got to work.

It only took a few minutes, but it felt like an hour, her fingertips on Frank’s skin, Frank so still and patient beneath her.

It was another line they were crossing. A different way of helping each other, of trusting each other. A different kind of intimacy between them.

Karen finished wrapping his head, taped the end of the bandage, tugged on it gently.

“How does that feel?” she asked, her fingers on his temples.

“Fine,” he said. His voice sounded rougher than usual, and she shifted her attention to his face, to his good eye, searching for pain, but she found something else entirely.

Her breath caught.

“Thank you, Karen.” He still wasn’t touching her, but his trigger finger was tapping again.

“You’re welcome, Frank.”

\---

She slept on the couch, another argument won. All she had to say was “one good eye, Frank” and he acquiesced.

She woke up late, but still before he did, which was no surprise. She would have bet her last paycheck he hadn’t gotten any sleep since the injury.

His bed was in plain view from the living room—if you could call it that—in his tiny apartment. Frank was lying on his back, one arm dangling off the small bed. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. She watched him for a while from where she lay on the couch, no one there to judge her for how long she could be content just to look at him. She wondered if he usually slept on his back, or if it was just because of his eye.

She wondered how he would sleep if she lay next to him.

And then Max was blocking her view, sticking his nose in her face, saving her from her own thoughts.

She bundled up, checked the fridge, left a note for Frank on his bedside table on the off chance he woke up, snagged his keys and Max’s leash, and took Max for a walk.

When she opened the door to Frank’s apartment with two bags of groceries hanging from the arm not holding Max’s leash an hour and a half later, Frank was still passed out. He didn’t make a sound while she put away the groceries, and he didn’t move when she crept past him to use the bathroom. He was still asleep thirty minutes later, after she’d pulled To Kill a Mockingbird off his shelf and finished rereading the first two chapters.

It was almost 2 o’clock.

She called Curtis. Scrolled through Frank’s phone until she found the number he’d called two nights ago and dialed.

They hadn’t met yet. She’d never pushed because it’d never bothered her. Frank had his own pace, his own reasons. She understood that. But it would have made the conversation she was about to have a lot easier.

Curtis picked up after two rings.

“Where’ve you been, man? I haven’t heard from you; I’ve been worried.”

“It’s not Frank. It’s…Karen.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Where’s Frank, Karen?” The geniality was gone, replaced by urgency.

“Asleep.”

She heard Curtis let out a deep breath, the sound crackling through the phone.

He recovered quickly.

“Karen. As in Karen Page? _The_ Karen?”

She couldn’t help smiling a little. After the diner, the hotel, and whatever these last months were, she supposed she’d earned the title.

“That’s me.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Page?”

She looked over at Frank. He was lucky to be asleep for this, even if he didn’t know it.

“Frank’s been asleep for ten hours. Do I need to wake him up?”

“Do I want to know how you know he’s been asleep for ten hours?”

“Nothing as exciting as you’re probably thinking.”

Curtis laughed. “I like you, Karen Page. He’s fine, but he should probably drink something, eat, change the dressing on his eye again, so yeah, wake him up.” He paused. “Are you gonna be staying there?”

Karen looked down at her feet. She knew how much Curtis had helped Frank, how much Frank trusted him, loved him.

She didn’t lie to Frank. She couldn’t lie to Curtis, either.

“Unless he forces me to leave. Which he’s in no condition to do.”

“Good answer.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Don’t let him sleep for more than twelve hours. I don’t want him to get dehydrated. No caffeine, no alcohol. His bandage needs to be changed—”

“Every six hours,” she finished. “He told me.”

“Not that he listened,” Curtis said.

“No, not that he listened.”

“He can take a shower tomorrow morning; the stitches can get wet then. And tell him to call me. I want to check on them at some point.”

“I will. Thanks, Curtis.”

“Anytime, Miss Page. Anytime.”

\---

She made the same thing Frank ordered every time they met for breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast—poured a glass of water, set it on his nightstand, and then stared at him for five minutes, trying to figure out the best way to wake him up.

He was lying on his side now, the good side of his face pressed into his pillow, his arm still hanging off the bed. She settled on the edge of the mattress behind him, in the empty space he’d left when he’d rolled over. She lay her hand on his arm.

“Frank,” she said gently. She squeezed his arm a little, drew her thumb across his skin. “Frank.” A little louder. “Frank, wake up.”

He startled awake all at once, his head thrashing against his pillow, his arm pulling from her grip. She leaned into him, moved her hand to his chest, trying to put herself in his line of sight.

“Frank, it’s Karen.” He had a wild look in his eye when his gaze finally landed on her, but he relaxed, sinking down into the mattress again on his back. His arm fell across her knees, stretched across her lap, hand hanging loose in the air next to her. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under her fingers.

“Hey.”

She almost laughed. All that, and he just said hey.

“You okay?”

Now she did laugh.

“Yeah, Frank, I’m okay.”

He took a deep breath, nodded, then snapped back to attention.

“Where’s Max?” He tried to push himself up out of bed. His hand found the crease between her hip and her thigh, trying to use her body as leverage to sit up. She tried to hold him down with the hand on his chest.

“Max!” she called. And he trotted over, right to Frank’s open hand, and started licking him. Frank relaxed against her again, but his hand stayed on her hip.

“You two best friends now?” he asked, huddling Max close and kissing him on the head.

She told herself it was wrong to be envious of a dog. And that wasn’t where she wanted Frank to kiss her.

“We went for a walk. Did some grocery shopping.”

Frank looked at her, still petting Max. “How’d you swing that?”

“I lied to the cashier. Told her he was a service dog in training.”

Frank’s grin was lopsided and knowing. “I bet you pulled it off, too.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” He scoffed at that, turned back to Max, and she heard him grumble _maybe_ under his breath. She smiled, watched him for a second. Shook herself out of it. “Alright, get up. Breakfast first, then we’ll take care of your eye.”

Karen reached for his plate, let Frank slide out from under her. His fingers trailed the length of her leg to her knee as he sat up. He eyed the eggs.

“What time is it?” He took the plate from her.

She glanced at the alarm clock next to him. “2:43.”

“Ellison okay with you not showing up for work?”

She shrugged. “I’m taking a long weekend.”

Frank set his fork back down on his plate. “I don’t need a babysitter, Karen.”

“Good. I don’t want to be one.”

Frank stared at her hard, before turning back to his plate, stabbing viciously at his eggs. She stared right back, but he was avoiding her eyes now.

She probably should have gotten up, given him space to eat his food in peace, instead of with her pressed against his leg, crowding him in his own bed.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not a burden, Frank,” she said quietly.

He stopped eating. Looked up at her, his face too guarded, too careful. Trying to hide that she’d surprised him.

After all the shit they’d been through, it amazed her that he still didn’t seem to understand this. Or maybe he just had trouble believing it. Either way.

Her life had fallen apart so many times before they’d met, the mess Frank dragged with him barely even registered. She would have given anything for him to have his family back, for him to have been a little less skilled, passed over for Operation Cerberus, never crossing paths with William Rollins.

But if she’d never been framed for murder, if she’d never met Foggy or Matt, if Frank’s case had never come across their desks, if she’d never gotten the chance to shove that photo in his face, she knew somehow that she would have spent the rest of her life missing him, without even knowing his name.

Her life was better with Frank in it. Period.

She smiled a little so she didn’t cry. “Okay?”

She didn’t know what Frank saw on her face—didn’t want to know, didn’t want to feel embarrassed by how much she was probably giving away—but whatever it was, it was enough to convince him.

“Okay,” he said, his voice as soft as hers.

“Okay.”

\---

He almost fell asleep again while she was changing his bandage. He probably would have if wrapping his head didn’t jostle him so much.

In any case, she left a sleepy Frank with an equally nap-ready Max and headed back to her apartment. She needed a shower and a change of clothes and the files she’d left scattered across her living room floor so Frank wouldn’t think all she did was watch him sleep.

Mostly, she needed the bite of cold air against her face. The only way she could have gotten closer to Frank while she changed his bandage was if she climbed into his lap.

Karen let herself back into Frank’s apartment two and a half hours later, just after dark. He was still asleep, in the same position she’d left him, Max at the foot of the bed. She watched for the rise and fall of Frank’s chest, bent down to pet Max when he hopped down and padded across the floor to the kitchen, looking up at her expectantly.

And then she started dinner.

It felt intrusive, like a disturbance somehow, to act so casually domestic in Frank’s space. Using his keys, buying groceries, rummaging through his cabinets for dishware, cooking dinner for two.

Then again, there’d never been anything casual about her and Frank.

Still, there was another line, left in the dust. She didn’t know how many more she’d get away with crossing.

Frank woke up just as she was pulling the meatloaf out of the oven. It was one of the first things her mother taught her to make. Today was a day it didn’t hurt so much to think about her.

She heard his feet hit the floor, glanced up at him while she set the pan on the stove. His head was down, elbows on his knees, like he was trying to get his bearings. He stood up slowly, and she turned back to the counter, busying herself with plates and silverware. The bathroom door clicked shut.

It was probably the first time he’d been out of bed all day.

When he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was running a hand over his hair. He’d put a shirt on.

“You cooked,” he said. He looked confused, like he’d never seen food before.

Karen crossed her arms and leaned against the counter.

“It’s been known to happen,” she said wryly. Usually they met at some hole-in-the-wall diner or ate takeout in her apartment. She’d always assumed it was to avoid cooking for each other, and all the implications that followed. But maybe he thought she couldn’t cook. “You think your eggs cooked themselves?”

Frank looked up at her and then away, rolling his eyes, barely suppressing his smirk. But he pulled out a seat and sat down.

“How’re you feeling?”

He sighed. “Like I almost got stabbed in the eye.”

“I’ve heard almost getting stabbed in the eye will do that to you.” She cleared her throat, dropped her eyes to her feet, Frank’s smile a little too much to handle. “Think you could eat?”

When she glanced back up at him, he still had his eye on her. He tilted his head in a shrug.

“Depends. You making me eat alone again?”

God, she was so screwed.

“No.”

“Then, yeah. I could eat.”

\---

Frank was restless after staying inside all day, so they took Max for a walk after dinner. It was enough to tire Max out, who was now sleeping in his dog bed, but not enough for Frank, apparently, who kept shifting positions while he read on the couch.

Karen was staring at her computer screen, her stack of files now spread out on Frank’s kitchen island, pretending that she wasn’t thinking about the fact that they hadn’t held hands on Max’s walk tonight and desperately denying how badly she’d wanted to.

She could see Frank fidgeting from the corner of her eye but decided to let it be.

Until the book in his hands flew halfway across the room, smacking against the wall and landing pitifully in a heap on the floor.

She turned her full attention to Frank. His hands were clenched into fists in his hair, head hanging down, elbows on his knees.

She hesitated, then stood up from her stool at the counter, walked over to the couch and pushed the coffee table away from Frank’s knees. She dropped down on the edge of it and leaned forward, her knees in between his, their faces inches apart. She reached for his hands, pulling them from his hair, setting them on his thighs, her fingers wrapped around his.

They stayed like that for a few minutes. Frank kept his head down but didn’t pull his hands from hers. When he raised his head to speak, his voice was harsh.

“What are you doing here, Karen?”

She fought the urge to pull back at his words, undoubtedly what he was aiming for.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“What are you getting out of this, huh? This can’t be how you want to spend your Friday night.”

“I’m working. What do you think my Friday nights usually look like?” But this wasn’t about her, and they both knew it. “What happened with the book, Frank?”

“You should be back at your apartment; you should have been at the office today. You—”

“I’m right where I want to be.” He looked like he was going to interrupt her again, but she kept going. “What happened with the book?”

He looked at her for a long, miserable moment.

“I can’t read it,” he said finally.

She nodded. “Your eye.”

“Yeah. But it, uh…” He stopped, ducking his head. When he looked up again, he looked sheepish. Shy, even, his gaze catching hers then shifting away again. “It helps me sleep, you know?”

“Okay,” she said. She stood up, walked back over to her laptop. Shut it and piled her files on top of it. Then she walked across the room, picked up the wilting copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and walked back over to Frank, crossing her legs underneath her as she sat down at the other end of the couch. “What page were you on?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” she said quietly, running a thumb over the worn cover.

It had been one of Kevin’s favorites. He’d cried the first time he read it, knocked on her door at 10 pm on a random school night, eyes red, cheeks wet. Climbed into bed next to her and hugged her so tight it almost hurt. He’d slept in her room that night, like they used to do when they were kids and one of them had a bad dream.

She was surrounded by all her ghosts tonight.

Karen tore her eyes away from the book and looked up at Frank. He was studying her, trying to decide if she was serious, maybe, or trying to decide if he should say yes.

_Say yes_ , she thought. _Let yourself have this. Say yes._

Even in her head it sounded like she was asking him to say yes to more than just the book.

“Chapter five,” he said, and she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. She flipped to the right page and started reading.

Frank moved back to lean against the arm of the couch, his body turning just slightly toward hers, his arm resting on top of the cushions.

It was a small couch. His fingers weren’t that far from her shoulder. He kept his good eye trained on her, and she kept her eyes trained on the pages, trying to ignore the way he relaxed at the sound of her voice.

\---

She woke up before Frank again, more of the same: watched for his breathing, watched him sleep, tried not to think about lying next to him.

Failed.

Started thinking about waking up next to him, thought about all the ways she wished she could wake him up.

Sat bolt upright on the couch, startling Max awake. Grabbed his leash and left a hurried note about taking him on a walk. Got the hell out of there.

She wasn’t gone long enough.

Frank was awake when she came back, fresh out of the shower. She’d passed along Curtis’s instructions yesterday but was hoping she’d miss it this afternoon when she went back to her place for another change of clothes and her own shower.

She hadn’t packed a bag yesterday. It had seemed too presumptuous. And she couldn’t even think of showering at Frank’s place without her mind whiting out.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” she answered, hopefully not too noticeably breathless, bending down to unhook Max’s leash. He ran right to Frank.

Frank’s hair was still wet, and his shirt looked soft. Which was somehow worse than if he hadn’t been wearing one.

“Hungry?” she asked lightly.

Frank murmured some kind of assent, and she started making breakfast, mostly so she’d have an excuse not to look at him.

They waited to re-bandage his eye until after they ate, once his stitches were fully dry.

It was torture.

He was sitting on the kitchen stool again, and he smelled clean and felt warm. So warm she would have worried he had a fever, if she weren’t so keenly aware that her skin was just as hot.

Frank was silent, observing her.

“You never answered my question last night,” he said, when her fingers were on his cheek, holding the gauze down while the other unrolled more around his head. The skin around his eye was still too tender for tape, the bruises fading from red to purple, from purple to blue.

“What question?” She kept her eyes on the bandage, distracting herself by hyper focusing. It was only mildly working.

“What you’re getting out of this.”

Karen froze, her fingers stopping where they held the gauze behind his ear. She looked him right in the eye.

“What ‘this’?”

Frank didn’t look away. He tilted his chin up as if he were gesturing between them, the smallest movement.

“This,” he repeated.

She let out a breath, went back to unwinding the bandage. “Saved my life a couple of times,” she said, for lack of anything else to say. Or maybe to keep from saying anything else.

“That why you’re here, then? Out of gratitude?”

She cut the bandage where she’d finished wrapping it, ripped the piece of tape she’d cut off the edge of the counter, pressed a little too hard on Frank’s forehead.

“It is _not_ gratitude.”

She stepped away from him, out from between his legs, sorting through the first aid kit, putting away the pieces she’d pulled out.

Frank stood up, bringing him right next to her, closer than that day in the elevator.

“Then what is it, Karen? Why are you here? I know you know I can change my own damn bandages.”

She turned to face him. If he’d figured out this much, she couldn’t lie to him.

She couldn’t lie to him regardless.

“Frank.” His name was more of a breath than a sound. “You know why.”

He stared at her for a minute. They were so close. His gaze dropped down to her mouth, then drifted up to her eyes again.

But if he’d known that she didn’t really need to be there, that he didn’t need her help, why hadn’t he asked her to go? Frank wasn’t a man who acted out of polite obligation.

“Why did you let me stay?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer her. His face tightened, like he was fighting with himself. And then she saw the tension in him snap loose, like he was giving in, and the look in his eye changed to something vulnerable and scared.

“You know why.”

The sight of Frank in front of her went blurry, tears pooling along her lower lashes. Through them, she saw Frank’s mouth flatten into a grim line. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

“I hate looking at you with this thing. I can’t see you right.”

Karen opened her eyes to take his face in her hands, closed them again when she felt the weight of Frank’s hands curl around her waist.

“Then just stay right here. Like this.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
